P. Larson has
been after these liner notes for days now. But, I'm still digesting
this latest Temple of Bon Matin record, Cabin in the Sky. Despite
this new TOBM's heightened sense of space and dabbling in the hi-fi
(All previous versions of TOBM shared two qualities in common: sonic
density and garbled recordings.), fragments of Cabin in the Sky
sound vaguely like remnants from any of the past three records.
At near peak moments, they jam with such hard rock fervor that you
are tempted to tag them as space rock or jazzbo boogie. Then that
jam reaches meltdown and bursts into some propulsive free-roaming
nebula charged with ionized something or other and radioactive ass-quivering
debris. This music is all so incategorizable (word?!?) because of
its ability to operate as either head music or body music or both
in some perpetually shifting ratio.

Instability
naturally leads to psychic disorientation, which is my primary reason
for digging their sounds (Hell, two more reasons: 1) A new rearrangement
of the senses 2) Skull-fucking.). The music's relationship to the
moment(s) and place(s) that TOBM recorded it constantly remain(s)
obscured. Regardless of tempo or tone, each and every TOBM song
undulates and ripples as if it's part gas-liquid-solid. Remember
when your geology professor sprung that theory on you that rock
when young and volatile moves more like a liquid? TOBM are that
million-years process crammed into, roughly, 70 minutes.

Before
I've completely loss your attention, let me lend a couple hints
as to the theme(s) that inspired Ed's direction for Cabin in the
Sky. When I visited him at his condemned castle in the Pennsylvanian
woods known locally as Cheery Acres, we discussed his ideas for
the then yet-to-be-titled record. While we burned garbage in the
fireplace for warmth and rabid little'coons scurried about our feet
(Interpret this scene literally.), Ed talked quietly but intensely
of spelunkers discovering, deep within a shaft of a long-abandoned
Appalachian mine, the skeletal remains of a mother lovingly embracing
her human-alien hybrid baby; both found clinging to one another
in the fetal position.

The
obvious themes are there: backwoods folk and their music mingling
with space-age extraterrestriality. But, I, also, think that ragged
Ed Wilcox- the self-exile and the lone troubadour- sees the near-extinct
life that he has cultivated huddled in the dankness of that mines
haft. He's a visionary, in the terms most descriptive sense, who
still believes in the power of fusing an organically grown language
(folk music) with highly individual interpretation similar in spirit
to some of Ed's idols and recent inspirations: Max Roach and the
Allman Brothers (Dear Ed: Now we can listen to Eat a Peach together.)
Sure, TOBM kicks out some weird shit at times that can entail some
concentrated listening. But, it should be when the music is a reflection/refraction
of an authentic group of strangers adrift from the mother culture
searching for a common tongue amongst themselves.

Months
later when I witnessed this new TOBM vibrate the pillars of the
Bulb Clubhouse in Olneyville, ED looked as if he himself stumbled
down from the hills when he took the stage barefoot and wore nothing
but a pair of filthy Levis. He strapped a homemade assemblage of
drums and rattles across his chest and proceeded to rock his pale-white
mud pie breasts into a glistening speckled jelly of sweat and grime.
This backwoods allegory completed itself when this new TOBM unleashed
their music on the crowd.

The guitarist
resembled a gargantuan dark yeti who possessed a bewildering sense
of time when he slashed across Ed's quaking drumming with jagged
riffage and other playing techniques that are much less obvious
than power-riffs but press the band's sound in a constant forward
motion. Ed's bassist surely must have been a bootlegger when both
of these weary looking creatures encountered one another on their
respective pilgrimages through the underbelly of American music.
Like his band mates, this bootlegger's fluid bass lines provided
both forward motion and a swirling sense of free movement. I'm not
too sure how Mr. Velocity Hopkins fits into this painting, but with
a six-string that emits prickly-metallic-chugging-metal-farts, he's
become a part of Wilcox's stream. Maybe he's the bug-eyed preacher
who was chased from town due to his whiskey-soaked shenanigans with
the local lady aristocrats. Then again, he's convinced that I'm
the lush in this 'burg.

- Justin Farrar

MORE
PRESS:

TEMPLE OF BON MATIN: Cabin in the Sky LP (BULB)
The Temple of the Good Morning return with another release on one of America's top five or even top three labels for underground music. Blastitude regulars may or may not have noticed that I think Bullet Into Mesmer's Brain by the Laser Temple of Bon Matin is one of the best albums this whole 1990s freak underground came up with. That was sort of a big-band album, that sounded like it might have been largely recorded at one single live show, with one of the most unique drifty/jammy 'space rock' vibes around. Well, I would've been happy with a Mesmer's Part Two, but on the Bulb website I caught wind of how Mr. Bon Matin Ed Wilcox was kind of laying low, living in a condemned cabin with lots of squirrels for roommates, and at live shows playing live with his drums just strapped to him. That led me, somewhat disappointed, but still interested, to expect an album performed not by a band, but more just by Wilcox, up in his cabin, some sort of broken-down Jandekian thing. Well, now I've got it, and despite the brief intro (a traditional country blues!) it's not really a solo cabin-folk thing at all. In fact, "Muleskinner Blues" ends with a beautiful rock-band coda, like the dreamy expanse of Mesmer's condensed and hardened into just a couple highly effective minutes. The big rock drum set is still all over this album, played to flooring effect on "Shenandoah," a heavy-ass rock jam like a slow Black Butthole Sabbath Surfers dirge only huger and more blown-out. Rocks harder than anything on Mesmer's, and the next cut ("Caledonia," recorded live in Miami) rocks even harder than that....now I'm hearing the infamous "Merzbow meets L.A. Guns" comparison which frankly never really happened on the quite mellow Mesmer's album. Then again, the next track, "Coloring Book," is a jazzy drum/keyboard duo improv. There's plenty more out and loud stuff to come, though the set-closing title track is a peach-eating sweet-side-of-the-Allmans instrumental. (The catch is that it's mixed so it sounds like you're playing it with an ounce of dust attached to the needle.) Cabin in the Sky is a pretty serious album....I think it's actually a step up from Mesmer's...
-- Blastitude

"The
mysterious wall of sound and confusion explodes from the tips of
Fast Eddie's sticks. The Temple is a machine that puts you in trance.
Very sonic, very hard, very fast. Combining Eastern philosophy with
Eastern cartooning, Bon Matin races into your heart. Probably having
the most extensive revolving door of musicians, I'm sure some sadly
missed members would have remained had the entity garnered more
support over the years. Some speak in hushed voices of the Temple
curse. Years from now hordes of ignorant naysayers will be climbing
over each other to claim that they were there when no one else was.
The loooooooong overdue Siltbreeze LP released earlier this year
was a masterpiece to behold and demolished anyone's doubt that this
band, in any form, driven by Wilcox, can deliver the goods. With
the new addition of bonus drummer Angelo, Ed has room to soar like
he never has before, and the band remains ever-changing, ever-moving
and ever Bon Matin."
--Stain #9

"If
a gang of smelly welding students broke into your house, force-fed
you PCP, tore the place apart, all the while some maniac banging
on your doors with two ball peen hammers, that would have to be
Temple of Bon Matin"